CHAPTER L

THE SHEEP FAIR—TROY TOUCHES HIS WIFE’S HAND

Greenhill was the Nijni Novgorod of South Wessex; and the busiest,

merriest, noisiest day of the whole statute number was the day of the

sheep fair. This yearly gathering was upon the summit of a hill which

retained in good preservation the remains of an ancient earthwork,

consisting of a huge rampart and entrenchment of an oval form

encircling the top of the hill, though somewhat broken down here and

there. To each of the two chief openings on opposite sides a winding

road ascended, and the level green space of ten or fifteen acres

enclosed by the bank was the site of the fair. A few permanent

erections dotted the spot, but the majority of visitors patronized

canvas alone for resting and feeding under during the time of their

sojourn here.

Shepherds who attended with their flocks from long distances started

from home two or three days, or even a week, before the fair, driving

their charges a few miles each day—not more than ten or twelve—and

resting them at night in hired fields by the wayside at previously

chosen points, where they fed, having fasted since morning. The

shepherd of each flock marched behind, a bundle containing his kit for

the week strapped upon his shoulders, and in his hand his crook, which

he used as the staff of his pilgrimage. Several of the sheep would get

worn and lame, and occasionally a lambing occurred on the road. To meet

these contingencies, there was frequently provided, to accompany the

flocks from the remoter points, a pony and waggon into which the weakly

ones were taken for the remainder of the journey.

The Weatherbury Farms, however, were no such long distance from the

hill, and those arrangements were not necessary in their case. But the

large united flocks of Bathsheba and Farmer Boldwood formed a valuable

and imposing multitude which demanded much attention, and on this

account Gabriel, in addition to Boldwood’s shepherd and Cain Ball,

accompanied them along the way, through the decayed old town of

Kingsbere, and upward to the plateau,—old George the dog of course

behind them.

When the autumn sun slanted over Greenhill this morning and lighted the

dewy flat upon its crest, nebulous clouds of dust were to be seen

floating between the pairs of hedges which streaked the wide prospect

around in all directions. These gradually converged upon the base of

the hill, and the flocks became individually visible, climbing the

serpentine ways which led to the top. Thus, in a slow procession, they

entered the opening to which the roads tended, multitude after

multitude, horned and hornless—blue flocks and red flocks, buff flocks

and brown flocks, even green and salmon-tinted flocks, according to the

fancy of the colourist and custom of the farm. Men were shouting, dogs

were barking, with greatest animation, but the thronging travellers in

so long a journey had grown nearly indifferent to such terrors, though

they still bleated piteously at the unwontedness of their experiences,

a tall shepherd rising here and there in the midst of them, like a

gigantic idol amid a crowd of prostrate devotees.

The great mass of sheep in the fair consisted of South Downs and the

old Wessex horned breeds; to the latter class Bathsheba’s and Farmer

Boldwood’s mainly belonged. These filed in about nine o’clock, their

vermiculated horns lopping gracefully on each side of their cheeks in

geometrically perfect spirals, a small pink and white ear nestling

under each horn. Before and behind came other varieties, perfect

leopards as to the full rich substance of their coats, and only lacking

the spots. There were also a few of the Oxfordshire breed, whose wool

was beginning to curl like a child’s flaxen hair, though surpassed in

this respect by the effeminate Leicesters, which were in turn less

curly than the Cotswolds. But the most picturesque by far was a small

flock of Exmoors, which chanced to be there this year. Their pied faces

and legs, dark and heavy horns, tresses of wool hanging round their

swarthy foreheads, quite relieved the monotony of the flocks in that

quarter.

All these bleating, panting, and weary thousands had entered and were

penned before the morning had far advanced, the dog belonging to each

flock being tied to the corner of the pen containing it. Alleys for

pedestrians intersected the pens, which soon became crowded with buyers

and sellers from far and near.

In another part of the hill an altogether different scene began to

force itself upon the eye towards midday. A circular tent, of

exceptional newness and size, was in course of erection here. As the

day drew on, the flocks began to change hands, lightening the

shepherd’s responsibilities; and they turned their attention to this

tent and inquired of a man at work there, whose soul seemed

concentrated on tying a bothering knot in no time, what was going on.

“The Royal Hippodrome Performance of Turpin’s Ride to York and the

Death of Black Bess,” replied the man promptly, without turning his

eyes or leaving off tying.

As soon as the tent was completed the band struck up highly stimulating

harmonies, and the announcement was publicly made, Black Bess standing

in a conspicuous position on the outside, as a living proof, if proof

were wanted, of the truth of the oracular utterances from the stage

over which the people were to enter. These were so convinced by such

genuine appeals to heart and understanding both that they soon began to

crowd in abundantly, among the foremost being visible Jan Coggan and

Joseph Poorgrass, who were holiday keeping here to-day.

“That’s the great ruffen pushing me!” screamed a woman in front of Jan

over her shoulder at him when the rush was at its fiercest.

“How can I help pushing ye when the folk behind push me?” said Coggan,

in a deprecating tone, turning his head towards the aforesaid folk as

far as he could without turning his body, which was jammed as in a

vice.

There was a silence; then the drums and trumpets again sent forth their

echoing notes. The crowd was again ecstasied, and gave another lurch in

which Coggan and Poorgrass were again thrust by those behind upon the

women in front.

“Oh that helpless feymels should be at the mercy of such ruffens!”

exclaimed one of these ladies again, as she swayed like a reed shaken

by the wind.

“Now,” said Coggan, appealing in an earnest voice to the public at

large as it stood clustered about his shoulder-blades, “did ye ever

hear such onreasonable woman as that? Upon my carcase, neighbours, if I

could only get out of this cheese-wring, the damn women might eat the

show for me!”

“Don’t ye lose yer temper, Jan!” implored Joseph Poorgrass, in a

whisper. “They might get their men to murder us, for I think by the

shine of their eyes that they be a sinful form of womankind.”

Jan held his tongue, as if he had no objection to be pacified to please

a friend, and they gradually reached the foot of the ladder, Poorgrass

being flattened like a jumping-jack, and the sixpence, for admission,

which he had got ready half-an-hour earlier, having become so reeking

hot in the tight squeeze of his excited hand that the woman in

spangles, brazen rings set with glass diamonds, and with chalked face

and shoulders, who took the money of him, hastily dropped it again from

a fear that some trick had been played to burn her fingers. So they all

entered, and the cloth of the tent, to the eyes of an observer on the

outside, became bulged into innumerable pimples such as we observe on a

sack of potatoes, caused by the various human heads, backs, and elbows

at high pressure within.

At the rear of the large tent there were two small dressing-tents. One

of these, alloted to the male performers, was partitioned into halves

by a cloth; and in one of the divisions there was sitting on the grass,

pulling on a pair of jack-boots, a young man whom we instantly

recognise as Sergeant Troy.

Troy’s appearance in this position may be briefly accounted for. The

brig aboard which he was taken in Budmouth Roads was about to start on

a voyage, though somewhat short of hands. Troy read the articles and

joined, but before they sailed a boat was despatched across the bay to

Lulwind cove; as he had half expected, his clothes were gone. He

ultimately worked his passage to the United States, where he made a

precarious living in various towns as Professor of Gymnastics, Sword

Exercise, Fencing, and Pugilism. A few months were sufficient to give

him a distaste for this kind of life. There was a certain animal form

of refinement in his nature; and however pleasant a strange condition

might be whilst privations were easily warded off, it was

disadvantageously coarse when money was short. There was ever present,

too, the idea that he could claim a home and its comforts did he but

chose to return to England and Weatherbury Farm. Whether Bathsheba

thought him dead was a frequent subject of curious conjecture. To

England he did return at last; but the fact of drawing nearer to

Weatherbury abstracted its fascinations, and his intention to enter his

old groove at the place became modified. It was with gloom he

considered on landing at Liverpool that if he were to go home his

reception would be of a kind very unpleasant to contemplate; for what

Troy had in the way of emotion was an occasional fitful sentiment which

sometimes caused him as much inconvenience as emotion of a strong and

healthy kind. Bathsheba was not a woman to be made a fool of, or a

woman to suffer in silence; and how could he endure existence with a

spirited wife to whom at first entering he would be beholden for food

and lodging? Moreover, it was not at all unlikely that his wife would

fail at her farming, if she had not already done so; and he would then

become liable for her maintenance: and what a life such a future of

poverty with her would be, the spectre of Fanny constantly between

them, harrowing his temper and embittering her words! Thus, for reasons

touching on distaste, regret, and shame commingled, he put off his

return from day to day, and would have decided to put it off altogether

if he could have found anywhere else the ready-made establishment which

existed for him there.

At this time—the July preceding the September in which we find at

Greenhill Fair—he fell in with a travelling circus which was performing

in the outskirts of a northern town. Troy introduced himself to the

manager by taming a restive horse of the troupe, hitting a suspended

apple with a pistol-bullet fired from the animal’s back when in full

gallop, and other feats. For his merits in these—all more or less based

upon his experiences as a dragoon-guardsman—Troy was taken into the

company, and the play of Turpin was prepared with a view to his

personation of the chief character. Troy was not greatly elated by the

appreciative spirit in which he was undoubtedly treated, but he thought

the engagement might afford him a few weeks for consideration. It was

thus carelessly, and without having formed any definite plan for the

future, that Troy found himself at Greenhill Fair with the rest of the

company on this day.

And now the mild autumn sun got lower, and in front of the pavilion the

following incident had taken place. Bathsheba—who was driven to the

fair that day by her odd man Poorgrass—had, like every one else, read

or heard the announcement that Mr. Francis, the Great Cosmopolitan

Equestrian and Roughrider, would enact the part of Turpin, and she was

not yet too old and careworn to be without a little curiosity to see

him. This particular show was by far the largest and grandest in the

fair, a horde of little shows grouping themselves under its shade like

chickens around a hen. The crowd had passed in, and Boldwood, who had

been watching all the day for an opportunity of speaking to her, seeing

her comparatively isolated, came up to her side.

“I hope the sheep have done well to-day, Mrs. Troy?” he said,

nervously.

“Oh yes, thank you,” said Bathsheba, colour springing up in the centre

of her cheeks. “I was fortunate enough to sell them all just as we got

upon the hill, so we hadn’t to pen at all.”

“And now you are entirely at leisure?”

“Yes, except that I have to see one more dealer in two hours’ time:

otherwise I should be going home. He was looking at this large tent and

the announcement. Have you ever seen the play of ‘Turpin’s Ride to

York’? Turpin was a real man, was he not?”

“Oh yes, perfectly true—all of it. Indeed, I think I’ve heard Jan

Coggan say that a relation of his knew Tom King, Turpin’s friend, quite

well.”

“Coggan is rather given to strange stories connected with his

relations, we must remember. I hope they can all be believed.”

“Yes, yes; we know Coggan. But Turpin is true enough. You have never

seen it played, I suppose?”

“Never. I was not allowed to go into these places when I was young.

Hark! What’s that prancing? How they shout!”

“Black Bess just started off, I suppose. Am I right in supposing you

would like to see the performance, Mrs. Troy? Please excuse my mistake,

if it is one; but if you would like to, I’ll get a seat for you with

pleasure.” Perceiving that she hesitated, he added, “I myself shall not

stay to see it: I’ve seen it before.”

Now Bathsheba did care a little to see the show, and had only withheld

her feet from the ladder because she feared to go in alone. She had

been hoping that Oak might appear, whose assistance in such cases was

always accepted as an inalienable right, but Oak was nowhere to be

seen; and hence it was that she said, “Then if you will just look in

first, to see if there’s room, I think I will go in for a minute or

two.”

And so a short time after this Bathsheba appeared in the tent with

Boldwood at her elbow, who, taking her to a “reserved” seat, again

withdrew.

This feature consisted of one raised bench in a very conspicuous part

of the circle, covered with red cloth, and floored with a piece of

carpet, and Bathsheba immediately found, to her confusion, that she was

the single reserved individual in the tent, the rest of the crowded

spectators, one and all, standing on their legs on the borders of the

arena, where they got twice as good a view of the performance for half

the money. Hence as many eyes were turned upon her, enthroned alone in

this place of honour, against a scarlet background, as upon the ponies

and clown who were engaged in preliminary exploits in the centre,

Turpin not having yet appeared. Once there, Bathsheba was forced to

make the best of it and remain: she sat down, spreading her skirts with

some dignity over the unoccupied space on each side of her, and giving

a new and feminine aspect to the pavilion. In a few minutes she noticed

the fat red nape of Coggan’s neck among those standing just below her,

and Joseph Poorgrass’s saintly profile a little further on.

The interior was shadowy with a peculiar shade. The strange luminous

semi-opacities of fine autumn afternoons and eves intensified into

Rembrandt effects the few yellow sunbeams which came through holes and

divisions in the canvas, and spirted like jets of gold-dust across the

dusky blue atmosphere of haze pervading the tent, until they alighted

on inner surfaces of cloth opposite, and shone like little lamps

suspended there.

Troy, on peeping from his dressing-tent through a slit for a

reconnoitre before entering, saw his unconscious wife on high before

him as described, sitting as queen of the tournament. He started back

in utter confusion, for although his disguise effectually concealed his

personality, he instantly felt that she would be sure to recognize his

voice. He had several times during the day thought of the possibility

of some Weatherbury person or other appearing and recognizing him; but

he had taken the risk carelessly. If they see me, let them, he had

said. But here was Bathsheba in her own person; and the reality of the

scene was so much intenser than any of his prefigurings that he felt he

had not half enough considered the point.

She looked so charming and fair that his cool mood about Weatherbury

people was changed. He had not expected her to exercise this power over

him in the twinkling of an eye. Should he go on, and care nothing? He

could not bring himself to do that. Beyond a politic wish to remain

unknown, there suddenly arose in him now a sense of shame at the

possibility that his attractive young wife, who already despised him,

should despise him more by discovering him in so mean a condition after

so long a time. He actually blushed at the thought, and was vexed

beyond measure that his sentiments of dislike towards Weatherbury

should have led him to dally about the country in this way.

But Troy was never more clever than when absolutely at his wit’s end.

He hastily thrust aside the curtain dividing his own little dressing

space from that of the manager and proprietor, who now appeared as the

individual called Tom King as far down as his waist, and as the

aforesaid respectable manager thence to his toes.

“Here’s the devil to pay!” said Troy.

“How’s that?”

“Why, there’s a blackguard creditor in the tent I don’t want to see,

who’ll discover me and nab me as sure as Satan if I open my mouth.

What’s to be done?”

“You must appear now, I think.”

“I can’t.”

“But the play must proceed.”

“Do you give out that Turpin has got a bad cold, and can’t speak his

part, but that he’ll perform it just the same without speaking.”

The proprietor shook his head.

“Anyhow, play or no play, I won’t open my mouth,” said Troy, firmly.

“Very well, then let me see. I tell you how we’ll manage,” said the

other, who perhaps felt it would be extremely awkward to offend his

leading man just at this time. “I won’t tell ’em anything about your

keeping silence; go on with the piece and say nothing, doing what you

can by a judicious wink now and then, and a few indomitable nods in the

heroic places, you know. They’ll never find out that the speeches are

omitted.”

This seemed feasible enough, for Turpin’s speeches were not many or

long, the fascination of the piece lying entirely in the action; and

accordingly the play began, and at the appointed time Black Bess leapt

into the grassy circle amid the plaudits of the spectators. At the

turnpike scene, where Bess and Turpin are hotly pursued at midnight by

the officers, and the half-awake gatekeeper in his tasselled nightcap

denies that any horseman has passed, Coggan uttered a broad-chested

“Well done!” which could be heard all over the fair above the bleating,

and Poorgrass smiled delightedly with a nice sense of dramatic contrast

between our hero, who coolly leaps the gate, and halting justice in the

form of his enemies, who must needs pull up cumbersomely and wait to be

let through. At the death of Tom King, he could not refrain from

seizing Coggan by the hand, and whispering, with tears in his eyes, “Of

course he’s not really shot, Jan—only seemingly!” And when the last sad

scene came on, and the body of the gallant and faithful Bess had to be

carried out on a shutter by twelve volunteers from among the

spectators, nothing could restrain Poorgrass from lending a hand,

exclaiming, as he asked Jan to join him, “’Twill be something to tell

of at Warren’s in future years, Jan, and hand down to our children.”

For many a year in Weatherbury, Joseph told, with the air of a man who

had had experiences in his time, that he touched with his own hand the

hoof of Bess as she lay upon the board upon his shoulder. If, as some

thinkers hold, immortality consists in being enshrined in others’

memories, then did Black Bess become immortal that day if she never had

done so before.

Meanwhile Troy had added a few touches to his ordinary make-up for the

character, the more effectually to disguise himself, and though he had

felt faint qualms on first entering, the metamorphosis effected by

judiciously “lining” his face with a wire rendered him safe from the

eyes of Bathsheba and her men. Nevertheless, he was relieved when it

was got through.

There was a second performance in the evening, and the tent was lighted

up. Troy had taken his part very quietly this time, venturing to

introduce a few speeches on occasion; and was just concluding it when,

whilst standing at the edge of the circle contiguous to the first row

of spectators, he observed within a yard of him the eye of a man darted

keenly into his side features. Troy hastily shifted his position, after

having recognized in the scrutineer the knavish bailiff Pennyways, his

wife’s sworn enemy, who still hung about the outskirts of Weatherbury.

At first Troy resolved to take no notice and abide by circumstances.

That he had been recognized by this man was highly probable; yet there

was room for a doubt. Then the great objection he had felt to allowing

news of his proximity to precede him to Weatherbury in the event of his

return, based on a feeling that knowledge of his present occupation

would discredit him still further in his wife’s eyes, returned in full

force. Moreover, should he resolve not to return at all, a tale of his

being alive and being in the neighbourhood would be awkward; and he was

anxious to acquire a knowledge of his wife’s temporal affairs before

deciding which to do.

In this dilemma Troy at once went out to reconnoitre. It occurred to

him that to find Pennyways, and make a friend of him if possible, would

be a very wise act. He had put on a thick beard borrowed from the

establishment, and in this he wandered about the fair-field. It was now

almost dark, and respectable people were getting their carts and gigs

ready to go home.

The largest refreshment booth in the fair was provided by an innkeeper

from a neighbouring town. This was considered an unexceptionable place

for obtaining the necessary food and rest: Host Trencher (as he was

jauntily called by the local newspaper) being a substantial man of high

repute for catering through all the country round. The tent was divided

into first and second-class compartments, and at the end of the

first-class division was a yet further enclosure for the most

exclusive, fenced off from the body of the tent by a luncheon-bar,

behind which the host himself stood bustling about in white apron and

shirt-sleeves, and looking as if he had never lived anywhere but under

canvas all his life. In these penetralia were chairs and a table,

which, on candles being lighted, made quite a cozy and luxurious show,

with an urn, plated tea and coffee pots, china teacups, and plum cakes.

Troy stood at the entrance to the booth, where a gipsy-woman was frying

pancakes over a little fire of sticks and selling them at a penny

a-piece, and looked over the heads of the people within. He could see

nothing of Pennyways, but he soon discerned Bathsheba through an

opening into the reserved space at the further end. Troy thereupon

retreated, went round the tent into the darkness, and listened. He

could hear Bathsheba’s voice immediately inside the canvas; she was

conversing with a man. A warmth overspread his face: surely she was not

so unprincipled as to flirt in a fair! He wondered if, then, she

reckoned upon his death as an absolute certainty. To get at the root of

the matter, Troy took a penknife from his pocket and softly made two

little cuts crosswise in the cloth, which, by folding back the corners

left a hole the size of a wafer. Close to this he placed his face,

withdrawing it again in a movement of surprise; for his eye had been

within twelve inches of the top of Bathsheba’s head. It was too near to

be convenient. He made another hole a little to one side and lower

down, in a shaded place beside her chair, from which it was easy and

safe to survey her by looking horizontally.

Troy took in the scene completely now. She was leaning back, sipping a

cup of tea that she held in her hand, and the owner of the male voice

was Boldwood, who had apparently just brought the cup to her,

Bathsheba, being in a negligent mood, leant so idly against the canvas

that it was pressed to the shape of her shoulder, and she was, in fact,

as good as in Troy’s arms; and he was obliged to keep his breast

carefully backward that she might not feel its warmth through the cloth

as he gazed in.

Troy found unexpected chords of feeling to be stirred again within him

as they had been stirred earlier in the day. She was handsome as ever,

and she was his. It was some minutes before he could counteract his

sudden wish to go in, and claim her. Then he thought how the proud girl

who had always looked down upon him even whilst it was to love him,

would hate him on discovering him to be a strolling player. Were he to

make himself known, that chapter of his life must at all risks be kept

for ever from her and from the Weatherbury people, or his name would be

a byword throughout the parish. He would be nicknamed “Turpin” as long

as he lived. Assuredly before he could claim her these few past months

of his existence must be entirely blotted out.

“Shall I get you another cup before you start, ma’am?” said Farmer

Boldwood.

“Thank you,” said Bathsheba. “But I must be going at once. It was great

neglect in that man to keep me waiting here till so late. I should have

gone two hours ago, if it had not been for him. I had no idea of coming

in here; but there’s nothing so refreshing as a cup of tea, though I

should never have got one if you hadn’t helped me.”

Troy scrutinized her cheek as lit by the candles, and watched each

varying shade thereon, and the white shell-like sinuosities of her

little ear. She took out her purse and was insisting to Boldwood on

paying for her tea for herself, when at this moment Pennyways entered

the tent. Troy trembled: here was his scheme for respectability

endangered at once. He was about to leave his hole of espial, attempt

to follow Pennyways, and find out if the ex-bailiff had recognized him,

when he was arrested by the conversation, and found he was too late.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Pennyways; “I’ve some private information for

your ear alone.”

“I cannot hear it now,” she said, coldly. That Bathsheba could not

endure this man was evident; in fact, he was continually coming to her

with some tale or other, by which he might creep into favour at the

expense of persons maligned.

“I’ll write it down,” said Pennyways, confidently. He stooped over the

table, pulled a leaf from a warped pocket-book, and wrote upon the

paper, in a round hand—

“_Your husband is here. I’ve seen him. Who’s the fool now?_”

This he folded small, and handed towards her. Bathsheba would not read

it; she would not even put out her hand to take it. Pennyways, then,

with a laugh of derision, tossed it into her lap, and, turning away,

left her.

From the words and action of Pennyways, Troy, though he had not been

able to see what the ex-bailiff wrote, had not a moment’s doubt that

the note referred to him. Nothing that he could think of could be done

to check the exposure. “Curse my luck!” he whispered, and added

imprecations which rustled in the gloom like a pestilent wind.

Meanwhile Boldwood said, taking up the note from her lap—

“Don’t you wish to read it, Mrs. Troy? If not, I’ll destroy it.”

“Oh, well,” said Bathsheba, carelessly, “perhaps it is unjust not to

read it; but I can guess what it is about. He wants me to recommend

him, or it is to tell me of some little scandal or another connected

with my work-people. He’s always doing that.”

Bathsheba held the note in her right hand. Boldwood handed towards her

a plate of cut bread-and-butter; when, in order to take a slice, she

put the note into her left hand, where she was still holding the purse,

and then allowed her hand to drop beside her close to the canvas. The

moment had come for saving his game, and Troy impulsively felt that he

would play the card. For yet another time he looked at the fair hand,

and saw the pink finger-tips, and the blue veins of the wrist,

encircled by a bracelet of coral chippings which she wore: how familiar

it all was to him! Then, with the lightning action in which he was such

an adept, he noiselessly slipped his hand under the bottom of the

tent-cloth, which was far from being pinned tightly down, lifted it a

little way, keeping his eye to the hole, snatched the note from her

fingers, dropped the canvas, and ran away in the gloom towards the bank

and ditch, smiling at the scream of astonishment which burst from her.

Troy then slid down on the outside of the rampart, hastened round in

the bottom of the entrenchment to a distance of a hundred yards,

ascended again, and crossed boldly in a slow walk towards the front

entrance of the tent. His object was now to get to Pennyways, and

prevent a repetition of the announcement until such time as he should

choose.

Troy reached the tent door, and standing among the groups there

gathered, looked anxiously for Pennyways, evidently not wishing to make

himself prominent by inquiring for him. One or two men were speaking of

a daring attempt that had just been made to rob a young lady by lifting

the canvas of the tent beside her. It was supposed that the rogue had

imagined a slip of paper which she held in her hand to be a bank note,

for he had seized it, and made off with it, leaving her purse behind.

His chagrin and disappointment at discovering its worthlessness would

be a good joke, it was said. However, the occurrence seemed to have

become known to few, for it had not interrupted a fiddler, who had

lately begun playing by the door of the tent, nor the four bowed old

men with grim countenances and walking-sticks in hand, who were dancing

“Major Malley’s Reel” to the tune. Behind these stood Pennyways. Troy

glided up to him, beckoned, and whispered a few words; and with a

mutual glance of concurrence the two men went into the night together.